


In Bocca Di Lupo

by shadesofbrixton



Category: Alias, Inception (2010)
Genre: Crossover, F/M, M/M, Rambaldi Device, Spy Parents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-17
Updated: 2010-11-17
Packaged: 2017-10-31 00:12:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/337751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadesofbrixton/pseuds/shadesofbrixton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The problem is that they want the PASIV to be a Rambaldi device, but it's not.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Bocca Di Lupo

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fill for a prompt from [](http://futureperfect.livejournal.com/profile)[**futureperfect**](http://futureperfect.livejournal.com/), [here](http://community.livejournal.com/inception_kink/12989.html?thread=28930749#t28930749), for an Alias/Inception crossover fic, from [](http://inception-kink.livejournal.com/profile)[**inception_kink**](http://inception-kink.livejournal.com/). I think I probably slaughtered what she had in mind, but she was generous enough to cheerlead me the entire way, and it's because of her that this is the first fic I've written in, er, about three years, possibly more. Definitely the longest for a while before that, too. This is totally unbetaed, all mistakes are mine (and will hopefully be caught promptly and corrected), and if you are an Alias fan, do not try to fit this into the canon timeline. Please. For your sanity. Dear Inception fandom: I love you, and I read a lot of you, and I do not leave you enough feedback, but please keep spewing out the amount of genius you have been. xoxo, Brix

 

 

 

The problem is that they want the PASIV to be a Rambaldi device, but it's not.

Sark knows. He knows because he's read through the prophecies, and because he's seen the blueprints from the original PASIV device. (This is, after all, how he met Arthur.) He knows because he has handled a dozen Rambaldi devices, and he knows how they _feel_ , he knows the touch of science and magic that colludes within them. But mostly he knows because Irina tells him so, and her word is that of the only God he knows: untouchable, whole.

(One of the things that he and Arthur first bond over is their capacity for unquestioning devotion. To say that it serves them well would be redundant.)

So, when he gets the call from Sloane, when word comes down the pipes via all his channels and methods, that the former King of SD-6 has his wrinkled, spotty claws on a PASIV, Sark does nothing with the information for the first few days. He knows what they want: it's a dual purpose method, he's sure. Obtain someone who can properly dream share, and immediately figure out how to use that new-found knowledge against the United States Government.

Sark has no fondness for his adopted country. But some things fall under the category of professional courtesy, and there are some people that even he won't sell out.

 

 

 

Eames wakes to the cool, black, business end of a gun nudging him in the face. Of all the oblong objects that he could choose to be prodded in the cheek with, this is not in his top ten. Not really. Not unless one dashingly slicked up Point Man has his fingers on the grip, and even then. He's put himself on the nasty side of Arthur's moods before; the fact is that he enjoys them, but that doesn't mean that he relishes his skin relearning the impression of a muzzle.

"Ah," he says, struggling valiantly through cottonmouth. He shifts awkwardly, trying to roll up onto one arm, and the gun's attitude, inasmuch as it can be said to have one, becomes immediately agitated.

"You can stay right where you are," says the man on the other end of it. Eames thinks he needs work, personally. There's sort of a question mark on the end, and really, any bit of _doubt_ surrounding the idea is a bit foolish. Just his opinion. But still.

"Right," Eames agrees, holding both of his hands up where the are. Fingers splayed to demonstrate their innocent emptiness. He can see his totem on the bedside table: benign, innocent, so easily overlooked unless you know its purpose. It's tucked half under his wallet and, somehow, has wedged itself a bit into the flipped-closed halves of his cell phone. "Not a problem, honestly. Though you _did_ wake me, so...?"

The man steps forward, and Eames has a moment to wonder if he somehow purposefully positioned the dramatic strip of light to illuminate his face. This is, he realizes, Michael Vaughn jabbing him in the cheek with a firearm. He wouldn't put it past the man. "Agent Vaughn," Eames says wearily, and uses his palms to drag/push himself up into a sitting position. "To what do I owe this undisputed pleasure?" He still can't reach for his totem, but he tries to imagine a gun under the pillow. When he slides his fingers under, there isn't one there.

Which isn't a guarantee. But it's discouraging.

This, he realizes, has been a long time coming. He brought this on himself. Eames understands that. Drinking himself to sleep every night after Arthur's disappearance is not, perhaps, the most productive to self-preservation habits in the home. He feels rueful, and misses the opportunity for mockery aloud; equally misses Arthur's sharp, annoyed tone that would have come if he'd seen Eames in this state.

The CIA agent is not tough stock. Eames has heard enough stories. But even if he hadn't, the man's own handling of Eames in the past would prove to him exactly what sort of man he is. Boy scout. Brave, but only just. Brave and stupid. He watches as Vaughn holsters his weapon, which Eames thinks, really, is only proving his point here.

"We've had word that another organization has obtained a PASIV device," he says. Eames is quite proud of himself for keeping his face neutral. "We need your help."

Eames weighs his options. Then he weighs them against the chances of seeing Arthur again, and swings his legs out of bed. Arthur, his reverse Jimminy Cricket. His silent, memorized, condemning conscience. "Let me fetch some clothes," he murmurs, and no matter how docile he may sound, he still smiles to himself at Vaughn's awkward eye-shifting in the presence of his nudity.

The cards one are dealt must be played, after all.

 

 

 

Sark associates with criminals. He considers himself one. He has learned not to underestimate his cosigners and his reluctant compatriots. In every walk. But when he takes Ariadne's hand in greeting, he knows immediately how helpless she is. She reminds him, in all ways but one, of Sydney Bristow.

Ariadne doesn't cry as much.

Granted, this is a first impression, but Sark considers it valuable nonetheless.

"This is Dominic Cobb," Sloane is saying, and he forces himself to pay attention, not to let his mind wander. "The, ah... _owner_ of the PASIV device. And his team. They are, of course, funded by The Tourist."

"Mm." Sark recrosses his legs and shifts his weight to the other side of his allegedly ergonomically encouraging chair. He dislikes Sloane's propensity for proper nouns with an intensity he has, previously, reserved for Algerian smugglers. "Your reputation proceeds you, of course, Mr. Cobb." He taps his fingers briefly against the tabletop that separates them, and studies the faces of the motley group across from him. "Arvin wishes for me to be educated in your trade, I believe."

"Is that what you want?" Cobb asks him.

Sark considers the various ways to respond to that question, both appropriate and in. He watches Ariadne: the apple plump of her cheeks, the slight furrow between her eyes. Her overly stylized appearance, and the slightness of her body. Sark knows he could take her neck under his hands, place his fingers in very specific places, and end her life. He knows he could do it in several different ways - some that would cause her pain and some that would not. She shifts uncomfortably under his gaze, and the man next to her, the chemist who reminds Sark overly of Agent Weiss, frowns at him.

Interesting.

"As fascinating as I find your work," Sark tells Cobb directly, leaning forward and letting his fingers lace together on the table in front of him, "I'm afraid I must decline. There are, to put it simply, far too many things that could go wrong for a man in my position while unconscious or otherwise made vulnerable."

"Now just a m - " Sloane tries to interject, already attempting to push himself upward.

"Furthermore," Sark continues silkily, "I believe it would be of far better use to you to keep your technology to yourself. I understand that you are in the market for a point man?"

He lifts his eyebrows, and sees an uncomfortable glance pass between Sloane and Cobb. Privately, Sark thinks that Mr. Cobb needs to meet Jack Bristow. That, he thinks, he would very much like to witness. Possibly with a glass of good scotch to smooth the ride.

"You get more of this than you're totally sharing," Ariadne accuses him, and Sark does not deny it.

"It is," Sark muses, "particularly quick of you to replace your last man. I understand he met a rather gruesome end. You understand why I wouldn't be _eager_ , precisely, to put myself in that position."

"You didn't mention he was a coward," Cobb says to Sloane, but he's staring right at Sark. There's something about those eyes, Sark thinks. Irina would like this man. She would toy with him. She would drop him from whatever ledge his sanity perched upon.

"Oh, yes," Sark says cheerfully, reaching down to adjust a cufflink. "Or rather, this: I have no one's interests but my own at heart. Which, I should very much hope, did come in the brochure advertising me." His mouth twists and he looks at Sloane. "Your direction is mismanaged, sir. I do hope you endeavour to correct your course. There is no Architecture in this program." The girl, Ariadne, makes a face that Sark does not completely register. "Irina advises you turn your attentions elsewhere."

When he stands, it is a smooth motion, and startles none of them. The girl is studying him now with an intensity he dislikes. He nods to them collectively, and extends his hand for Cobb to shake. "I'll see myself out."

The corridor that he exits into is sleek. Chrome. He has always had a mild dislike for Sloane's decorating, and as he pulls his phone from his jacket, he frowns down at the display. A quick message is typed to his superior, and then he taps the phone against his mouth, considering.

His loyalties to Irina do not keep him from working outside of her master plan. His ability to do so, his natural derivation, is part of what drew them together in the first place. It takes only a moment for him to decide to wait for Cobb's team outside, and only another moment after that for the man in question to step free of the room. Ariadne and the chemist, speaking in hushed tones behind him, fall silent when they see him waiting. It's Cobb to whom Sark addresses his attentions, however.

"Mr. Cobb," he says quietly, a smile turning up one corner of his mouth. "I believe I could save you a great deal of time searching for a new employee. Arthur is, after all, quite alive."

 

 

 

"You have to understand," Eames is saying, rubbing one palm through the fuzz of hair at the base of his neck, "it isn't that simple." Which would be: forging in real life can't be translated to the dream world, and vice versa. Eames is an excellent con man in the real world, yes. He could probably manage to pick up quite a lot. But when it comes to actually putting on wigs, or prosthetics, or fake accents, he can only go so far. His expertise is elsewhere, and he respects this division.

Sydney, apparently, does not.

"It takes," he tries again, gesturing in vague circles with both hands. "It takes...it's... it's not something that you can teach, alright? It's different from that. The rules of the dream, you already know. Learning the extent to which you can manipulate that within the dreamscape is an entirely different concept."

They're walking down flights of stairs, through overly lit corridors. One set of iron bars raises, another falls. It all feels like an intricate Rube Goldberg device to Eames, who is waiting for a tell; waiting for some sign that this isn't real, even though the ridges on his poker chip insist it is. Sydney is in a suit, which feels like an unnecessary gesture to Eames, when he considers that there can't exactly be a lot of desk work for her position.

"But the constructs are the same," she insists. "In the waking work, the work is the same: you study your mark, you learn what you can through various channels, you can only create the impersonation once you're sure your forgery is sturdy enough to survive the stresses."

"It's different," he insists grimly, and they have to pause for a guard to let them through what looks like a glass chamber. "Your dreamer has shown you all of this, surely, my dear."

She doesn't look at him, but he can feel her tension. If they had been walking, he would have missed it, he's fairly sure. "We've only been able to learn so much from our current dreamer. None of us have been able to go in and create a dreamscape on our own, for example. It's always his dream."

Eames frowns, and they resume their progress down the corridor. There are fishtanked glass walls on either side of them now, divided by concrete barriers. Observational prisons. All of them are empty. Eames gets the willies just being around them. "Which is why you need me, then, hey?"

"Precisely," Sydney agrees. "You're the best in your business. We need to step this job up a notch, if we're going to take control of this technology before Sloane and his team."

Personally, Eames like how she makes it sound like his participation in this is _voluntary_. You end up owing one person a favor, one _wrong_ person, and suddenly they expect you to be able to work miracles and teach their daughters how to fly in Nod. It doesn't exactly work like that. "Alright, well," Eames says, hoping he doesn't sound as tired as he feels. "I'm going to need to see your set up, examine your PASIV device, and send your chemical constructs to my man for approval." Sydney arches a brow at the mention of an outside consultant, but Eames will be strident on this point if he has to. "I also want to meet your dreamer. If he's the only one who's taking you under, we need to find out what's not clicking, exactly."

Sydney hesitates slightly in front of one of the glass barriers, her reflection blurred by the fact that the material is nothing like glass at all. "Remember," she says, "that this is a matter of national security."

Eames gives her a look, one that says _what the fuck are you on about then_ , and nods. Only then does she advance to the adjacent cell. Eames follows her, and clasps his hands behind his back to disguise the frisson of delight that careens up his spine.

"I can see why you might be having some difficulty with the learning curve," he says, fists clenching, one, then the other, in rhythm out of sight. Arthur, precious Arthur, is stretched on the floor of the cell, hooked into the PASIV, and Eames feels that Arthur would be quite proud of him for not immediately smashing the woman's head against the glass in an effort to dissolve the barrier between them.

 

 

 

Sark hesitates as Cobb pulls open the rolling door to the abandoned warehouse. "What," he asks, voice flat, "Do they just _leave_ these laying about?"

"To be honest," the chemist says, his tone curious, "I had been wondering - "

"It's secure," Cobb says firmly, ushering them inside with an impatient hand wave. "And we don't have much time to waste on this nonsense. There are blueprints on my desk..."

And so there are. Sark tilts his head in amusement at the mess of the place, contrasted with the obviously unused bulk of the storage facility. Eighty percent of the hollowed out airline hangar belongs to nothing - then, in one corner, a Lilliputian cubical village has set up home. Sark navigates around the strange debris: crumpled paper waste, mismatched steel desks, and one busted up _méridienne_ upholstered in a most offensive shade of lime. Dry erase board, steel folding chairs, cardboard boxes spilling their packing materials hither and yon. He counts the number of desks, and notes one more than there are Cobb's crew members. He doesn't imagine that the additional one was put in place for _himself_ , so he purposefully takes the schematics from Cobb's workstation and moves them to the empty surface.

Ariadne frowns, and fiddles with a thread that's come loose on the cuff of her jacket. "That's - " she starts, and then trails off, turning her attention to her own desk.

Sark pretends he hasn't heard her at all. Arthur has been missing long enough that even the most sentimental team of dream thieves wouldn't be setting an empty place setting at the table, so to speak. Which means there's an expected addition, one who hasn't shown up. The sponsor? Sark doubts it. He files the thought away for later, and focuses his attention on the oversized paper under his fingers.

He furrows slightly and looks up at Cobb, bracing his hands on the edge of the table. "How old are these?"

"They're the most recent - "

"These are at least two years outdated," Sark interrupts, turning the papers so that Cobb can see. He approaches, almost reluctantly, and stares down at the paper. "I've been in this facility." He sweeps the papers out, and turns them over, grabbing a neatly placed pen from off the desk. Popping the top off with a thumb, he hunches one shoulder and starts to sketch in broad, thick strokes.

"So what are we talking about here?" asks the chemist. "Going in through ventilation shafts, down suspension wires, that kind of thing?"

Sark gives him a withering glance. Clearly the man hasn't the _slightest_ idea how loud ventilation shafts can be. "We aren't playing _Mission: Impossible_ here. How are you with explosives?"

A light appears in the man's eyes. "I can do explosives."

Ariadne shifts her weight. "Yusuf..."

"No, I am very good at explosives!" The chemist shakes affirming fingertips at Sark, quickly stalking over to his own work station and throwing open a particularly battered looking wooden case.

The clink of corked glass underwrites Sark's next question: "You're putting an awful lot of trust in me, Mr. Cobb."

Cobb seems unfazed by this accusation. "Can you get Arthur back?"

"Without a doubt."

He gestures to the pages, and crosses his arms over his chest. "Show us, then."

Sark is used to having to prove his work. This, he has discussed with Arthur, is a product of their ages. A product of the youth on their faces and the idiotic, mulish obsession popular society has with associating certain preconceived notions with low numbers.

So, Sark shifts his grip on the pen, and starts marking barriers. "We're going to need more than fire power for this job, Mr. Cobb," he informs the man coolly. "I'm aware that you can keep a collected head during your particular brand of extraction, but this will be a different thing altogether. You are talking about stealing from the government, after all."

"They're the best," Ariadne says.

"They aren't," Sark replies, not unkindly. It's a common misconception, after all. "But they're close." He pauses a moment, and then gestures her in. "Come. Look. We shall require your assistance as well, I believe."

 

 

 

Eames is barefoot, but he still tries to walk on the undampened portion of concrete next to the pool. It's almost painfully blue, the kind of bright that makes you want to look away. The concrete is warm under his feet, and gives way to stylized tilework momentarily. And then there are chairs - sunbathers, umbrellas, waiters in white tuxedos with starched towels over arms - that make Eames want to kip out for a few minutes, mission be damned.

Arthur is sitting at the outdoor bar, slowly rotating a swizzle stick in a glass of watered down whiskey. The glass sweats, and Eames suppresses an urge to reach out and touch it. When Arthur lifts it, a puddle of condensation has gathered beneath - droplets fall and patter dark stains onto Arthur's trousers.

"Hello," Arthur says warmly, and Eames is disgruntled a bit by the tone.

"Cheers," Eames agrees, and lifts a hand to signal the bartender. Because it's a dream, the man brings him what he wanted without his having to ask for it. Because it's a dream, Eames won't end up drinking most of it. "I've been looking for you, you know."

"Of course you have, Mr. Eames," Arthur says wryly. Eames isn't sure the last time he heard him...well, this _amused_. It's a great relief to hear Arthur's voice under any circumstances, and an equally great effort not to reflect on the last time he heard Arthur speak at all. The man placing a gun in his own mouth, the spray of brain across some fantasy eggshell paint job.

It wasn't the ritualized suicide that bothered Eames. It was that, when they woke up, Arthur was really dead. Not as a result of what had occurred in the dream, of course. Not strictly, anyway. But the way the op fell apart afterward could easily be blamed on it. One misstep, and then another, and it had been Arthur who'd suffered.

So he'd thought.

Arthur sets his glass down, wiping a thumb over one of the rock-cut edges of the glass, and the smile on his mouth is nearly blinding when Arthur asks him, "Planning on throwing me over the billiards table again?" just as Eames makes the mistake of trying to _swallow_ , and ends up choking.

"Excuse me?" he blurts as Arthur frowns at him.

"I know you're not a projection," he says. "I just can't figure out how you got in here." And it's that normal. It's that easy, for Arthur. Eames wants to scream, and ends up twisting his glass between his hands instead.

Arthur stares at him. The bartender looks at them. So do several people at the bar.

Eames touches pacifying fingers to the inside of Arthur's wrist where it rests on the bartop. "Let's not disturb the company, darling," he murmurs, and Arthur looks positively bored with him.

He has the decorum, though, to disconnect the touch sutbly. The projections go back to their conversation, and Arthur looks like he wants to shoot his cuffs, or smooth his hair back, but resists the urge. Eames hates that. He hates watching Arthur repress, restrict.

But it's clear he's waiting for Eames' answer, and won't ask again. Eames clears his throat and rubs his fingertips against the grout between the mosaicwork on the bartop. He feels strangely nervous, and really, all he wants to do is grab Arthur and check him over for injury. As if any of that would mean anything here. "You're being held in a CIA basement cell," he tells Arthur. The man nods impatiently, knowledge redundant. "They said you weren't being cooperative." Eames can't help the cheery lilt at this report. That's Arthur all over, alright. That's _his_ Arthur. "Called me in to ask for some help. Needed the best, apparently."

Arthur has the good sense to let his stormy expression dissolve into flat incredulity for long enough that Eames can bark a laugh.

"How long have I been under?" Arthur asks.

Eames sucks his teeth for a moment, and then shakes his head. "No way to tell, darling. It's been a few months. I'm not sure if you've been under the whole time. You'd know better than me."

"I," Arthur corrects him idly, and Eames smiles. Arthur notices, distracted. "What?"

"Nothing," Eames says. "Now, what's this about the billiards table, hm?"

Arthur exhales a startled breath. " _Nothing_. It's - there's a projection, he's _worse_ than - "

"I refuse to accept that that's at all possible," Eames says.

Arthur snorts in disbelief, and eyes him. Eames hides his face in his drink.

"The others think I'm dead?" Arthur asks.

"Mm," Eames agrees, resurfacing. "So did I, to be honest. It wasn't until they mentioned the PASIV case... they're using _your_ set up, did you know? The first time they brought me in, I nearly had a heart attack. I'd know that case anywhere. My dear, if I'd known they'd been keeping you _down there_ , I'd have called in the reinforcements immediately."

"It's fine," Arthur says, waving his hand, but it isn't. Eames knows it isn't, and it isn't to _Arthur_ , more importantly. Someone got the one-up on Arthur, and that simply is not _done_. Not to anyone in their team, but most of all not to Arthur. Eames knows how Arthur'll take it - how he _has been_ taking it, no doubt - and it won't end well. But the first step, he assumes, is to get them out of here.

"I told Miss Bristow," Eames says her name the same way Arthur would, and it makes Arthur's mouth twitch, "that I needed to go under alone, to, ah, ascertain the problem myself."

"And?" Arthur asks, his smile threatening now. "Do you think you can get him to cooperate?"

"Not to date." Eames leans against the joke of a stool backing and grins. "But I hold out everlasting hope."

"You're a tragedy," Arthur tells him, and Eames hums his agreement. "Do you have a plan?"

Eames knocks his foot restlessly against the solid base of the bar. The noise he makes this time isn't quite so friendly. "I was thinking we could trap her down here." It's too much like a question - he's not sure it'll work, and he's not sure it's the best idea. "Buy us some leverage. But as soon as you wake up - "

"Unless we push her down."

He says it so effortlessly, Eames is fairly sure the man has already put this through his head a hundred times. All he's needed is the help with it - the inside man, the one Sydney would trust to hook in again, and again, and again, to keep going under without the right kicks set up, to keep her laced tight in the lowest layers of the dream.

Eames looks at Arthur, and thinks he should wonder whether any other man in his life has been this terrifying, or this competent. But really, if he's honest, he knows the answer.

"Do what you can," Arthur says, visibly gathering himself. "I'll be here."

Eames nods, sliding from the bar stool, and then hesitates. "You'll be - it could be a while."

For the first time, Arthur looks a bit cracked as he smiles, and spreads his fingers, gesturing to their surroundings. "I'm trapped in paradise, Eames. How bad can it be?"

Pretty bad, Eames wagers. It doesn't make him want to leave any more than before, but he nods curtly, draws himself up, and turns away.

When he leaves, he chooses the path that takes him past the billiards tables.

 

 

 

"Please," Ariadne is saying over Sark's earpiece, "please, I need to speak with someone, I was just a - attacked, _accosted_ , I think, oh my god, I think I'm flipping out here - " Soothing male tones overrode her panic, though Sark can't quite make out the words. He tries to imagine the poor bastard they've put in control of taking her statement, and the girl speaking mostly with her hands. The tiny, irate press of her mouth at not being taken seriously, and then the eventual snapping of heads once her story circulates the branch office.

Name dropping him did wonders for attention, after all.

Tuning out the noise, he picks up the dull grey cap and settles it on the chemist's head, making sure the communication device nestled in his ear isn't visible. "You're ready?" he asks, taking a step back to make sure he looks presentable. The Metro rattles around them, taking a slight curve, and Sark reaches out to regain his balance on a handgrip.

The chemist looks distinctly uncertain about this question. "This has got to be... well, the oldest...one of the oldest tricks in the book. Dressing up as a _repair man_?"

"The difference," Sark explains, for the fifth time, "is that we have the proper documentation, and something is actually broken."

"Something that I don't know how to fix!" The chemist fidgets in his uniform, scratching a nail over the sewn-on name plate as if checking that it wasn't _ironed on_. Sark is almost insulted.

Instead of admonishing him, though, Sark shoves a clipboard into his hands and tosses him keys. " _Go_ ," he insists, as the chemist fumbles the keys against his chest. "Just look as bored as possible. You'll be fine."

The chemist looks like he's reciting some internal litany to himself, possibly involving deities, alcohol, and self bribery. But when the doors on the Metro car slide open, he goes - finally - and Sark turns his attention back to Ariadne's perpetual feed in his ear.

"...Bristow into the room immediately," is what he hears, and his eyebrows pop upward.

"I don't want to talk to her," Ariadne is saying. "I don't know her - I don't want to talk to someone new. Look, guys, I'm totally telling you everything I know here, okay? The more times I have to repeat it, the more, like, details are going to fall out. You know?"

Sark knows the girl isn't that gormless, but she's doing a damned good job of faking it.

"She's going to want to hear this," says some male agent on the other end of the feed, and Sark wonders for a moment what Sydney would make of the scenario. How she might pull the seams apart.

He doesn't have time to wonder, though. He has his own plans to achieve, and the exclusion of Cobb from the execution of these steps has been more of a hassle than he expected. He doesn't respect the man's needs to stay away from the authorities - children are nothing but a liability - but he does understand it, inasmuch as any tradesman is capable of taking stock of his resources and knowing what isn't present. Cobb simply _isn't_ , in his mind. That's enough to plan around.

Sark waits for the next stop, and exits with the crowd of people around him, carrying nothing but a slim black briefcase. He's halfway down Pennsylvania Avenue when his cell phone rings, and he doesn't break stride when he answers. In his worst American accent, he says, "DC Area Electrical, Ray speaking."

"Yes, I'm calling to confirm the placement of a..." He can hear the Chemist's voice in the background repeating his alias. "...RJ Bower at our facility?"

"Oh, sure," Sark enthuses, drawing out his voice as he stops at a crosswalk. "Let me just...punch...that....up..." He waits until the crowd of pedestrians ahead of him advances, and then continues. "He's supposed to be out at Casa Milagro today, but you know, things get backed up, and uh... oh, that's not, hold on, that's not until four, so. I just have an address, 601 Penn Ave? Scheduled by a Mr. Genovese." He purposefully slaughters the pronunciation of the name. "I've got a confirmation code, you need it?"

"No, no, thank you," says the man on the other end. "We'll put him through right away. Thank you again, sir."

"My pleasure!" Sark chirps, and, "You have a nice day, now!" He closes the phone and let a small smile crawl over his mouth.

"...need a minute to think," says Ariadne in his ear. She doesn't sound even remotely stressed.

This, Sark is aware, may end up being the easiest stroll into the CIA he's ever achieved.

 

 

 

Perversely, Eames' first thought after he situates himself back into Arthur's dream, is that it's a damned good thing Arthur can keep a poker face. The last thing he needs is to be slipping into a strip joint with a federal agent, and if their situations were reversed, he can't guarantee he wouldn't pull that kind of thing on Arthur.

Sydney is standing next to him, pushing unnecessary sunglasses up onto her head in confusion. The beach scene has changed to a shopping mall, and Eames wonders what kind of sick, summer-based fantasies Arthur has been harboring to torture them with this. "Where is he?" she asks immediately.

Eames shrugs. "He could be anywhere. The dream is endless. And since the point is that he doesn't _know_ we've arrived, that also means that it could take a while to find him."

She doesn't look happy over this particular turn of events, but she lets it go. Eames knows that Arthur's security is better than almost any of them. Better than his own, and that's saying a lot. Probably better than Cobb's. He's also certain that, if Arthur was waiting for them, he'd know they were there.

But just in case, he turns into Sydney.

"Jesus!" she says, nose wrinkling. "Don't do that."

Eames laughs and shifts back to himself, checking the small of his back for the gun he expects to be there. For once, it is. "Gives you ideas though, doesn't it." He gives her a wink and sets off through the menswear department, doing his best to ignore the color-sorted tables in every imaginable shade of silk tie.

There's lightly tinkling music filtering down from the overhead speakers, and projections roaming idly through the racks. Including small, sticky looking children straining desperately to get their polluted hands on very expensive clothing, which, in Eames' opinion, is a fantastic touch. Sydney lengthens her stride to catch up with him, and gives him a pretty hefty glare once she does, but really. She ought to be expecting it by now. "Where should we look for him?"

A decent question. Eames isn't sure how to evade with her for a moment, and wishes he'd had enough time to discuss the matter with Arthur. "Actually." He stops for a moment and examines a directory, wondering where the most likely place might be. Sharper Image? Some culinary supply shop that sells garlic presses at forty dollars a pop? Aunt Twistie's Pretzels? A little red arrow, flashing _Arthur Is Here_ , would be quite handy at the moment. But wishing one into existence wouldn't necessarily be accurate... or would it? Eames makes a note to ask the bastard once he finally claps eyes on him again.

The trick to any in-the-moment act of architecture alteration is to create something that naturally belongs in the dreamer's mind. You hand a lion tamer a whip, he isn't going to blink. You give an elementary school teacher a handgun, you're just inviting issues.

Usually, anyway.

So, Eames builds a pen shop. A fountain pen shop, to be specific, one that specializes in Monte Blanc and Cross. One with millions of little golden nibs, India ink, obscenely expensive paper, that sort of thing. Sydney watches the store shoulder itself between a Baby Gap and Victoria's Secret, and gives him an incredulous look.

"What?" he asks, hands in pockets, and strolls inside. There are lovely little Galway crystal paperweights, and everything is in shades of gleaming wood and glass and warm metallics. Eames is rather happy with it, to be honest, down to the faintly booky smell.

"Subtle," says Arthur, leaning against the in-wall magnetic security sensor.

"Arthur darling!" Eames cries, and Arthur ignores him. He lifts his chin in Sydney's direction, instead.

"You brought the feds?"

Sydney interrupts, a precious furrow carved between her eyes. "You two _know_ each other?"

"Not really," Arthur says, sounding bored. "He came in...a few weeks ago?" He seems genuinely puzzled by how long it may have been, but Eames admires him for not pausing overly on the topic. It takes a good force of effort on his own part not to stare at the man. _Weeks_. They had to get him the fuck _out_ of here.

A shopper murmurs an indistinct 'excuse me' to Eames as he steps around, and Eames wonders for a moment if the plan has changed. If, perhaps, they can somehow set Arthur's projections on the woman. It isn't that he has anything against Agent Bristow; not as a whole. It just, quite simply, has to be understood that there is very little he will permit when it comes to the abuse of his friends. And when it comes to _Arthur_ , well.

Well.

He can feel Arthur's attention on him, and he realizes he needs to say something. "Hm? Oh. Terribly sorry." He gives Sydney a smile, apologetic and a bit daft at the same time. "Just thinking about how best to put you two through then, hey? After all, we _must_ teach Sydney how to forge." Eames can do earnest. He can do this. It helps that Arthur isn't snorting in disbelief or rolling his eyes or snarking under his breath at him; which, Eames has to assume, is only because of his blood-deep desire to get out of here, and not any deference to Eames himself. More's the pity.

"I have an idea," Arthur says, and then they're in a conservatory. A botanical garden, and the air smells earthy and warm, the distant noise of birds and the glint of an imaginary sun off of sloping glass panels far above their heads. The architecture reminds Eames of the National Museum of Scotland - something designed around the turn of the century, with exposed rivets and white washed iron.

Sydney doesn't even seem aware that they've relocated - that there once was a mall - and Eames shoots an appreciative glance over Arthur's head. Exotic flowers seem to reach for him as they progress over a footbridge, a trickle of water drawing attention from various insects. Eames slaps one on his arm, and wonders whether they count as projections or scenery. Another question to ask Arthur later - philosophic internal dream debate is one of the man's frightening points of expertise, especially a few drinks in.

He's reluctant to break the spell on their moment of transference, but they _do_ have work to accomplish here. "Miss Bristow," Eames says, careful to pitch his voice conversationally, "Are you familiar with the concept of layered dreaming?"

Sydney is lifting a flowering vine out of her way, with no concern toward the fact that they haven't a destination in mind. "Is that like lucid dreaming?"

"Not at all," Arthur says evenly, and Eames is surprised again at the rush of relief he gets every time he hears that voice. Cultured, informative, just an edge of condescension. "A dream within a dream. It can be difficult, and unsteady, but it almost always helps you achieve the information you want more effectively than a single-tier dream."

"Huh," Sydney says, pausing for a moment down the dirt path to look back at Eames. Arthur, a second belated, does the same. "How do you do it?"

Eames and Arthur exchange an almost nonexistent moment of eye contact. He had, if he is entirely honest, expected it to be far more difficult to pique her curiosity. A woman who routinely slathers herself in latex compounds and ridiculous wigs and makeup doesn't seem to be the natural choice for this work. But the more Eames sees her thought processes, the more he's amazed that she's even managed to stay _alive_ inside the CIA for so long.

He clears his throat and lengthens his stride to join them, graciously flapping his hand above Sydney's head to redirect an errant butterfly. "The same way you go under in the real world. You plug into another PASIV."

"Seems like it might get kind of confusing, once you're trying to wake yourself up. How do you know you're finally awake?"

"Mm," Eames says, watching Arthur ahead of him, watching him part a wall of ivy to find a dull brass doorknob. The door swings open, and Arthur steps aside to let the lady through first. Of course. She passes into the darkness, and Eames hesitates outside the door. "There are ways," Eames settles on, and brushes his fingers over Arthur's wrist just to see Arthur look startled, and stormy, in turn.

Eames has opened his mouth to say something entirely inappropriate, when the phantom sun outside the greenhouse flickers. He glances upward, thinking that it's just an illusion, and Sydney's voice drifts out of the doorway, irate. "Are you coming?"

"Not yet," he says, distracted, and watches as the sun continues to flicker, like a dying halogen lamp.

When he checks, Arthur is looking, too. They exchange worried glances. _Did you?_ says Eames', and Arthur's replies, _No, no I did not_.

 

 

 

"You gotta be fuckin' kidding me!" Ariadne is yelling, planting both hands against Sark's back and shoving him _hard_.

Disgruntled, Sark catches his balance with only mild wheeling of his arms, and turns and glares ferociously at the girl. "I am _not_ , and _do_ take control of yourself _at once_ ," he hisses. He is pressed in the well of a wall made by two stone pillars, and he glances around one of the pillars quickly to assess their situation. Now is neither the time _nor_ the place for roughhouse shenanigans. He levels his gun and watches a bullet cleanly hone itself into the skull of a security guard just as the man rounds the corner. "Come along."

"Don't talk to me like I'm your little bitch," she snaps, but follows, grabbing up his briefcase. Sark notes that she has enough common sense to keep herself aligned with his body, and figures she's probably at least worth keeping alive for that. "Where's Yusuf?"

"He's fine," Sark insists for the third time. "The premature detonation of the explosives in no way indicates that - "

"Just save it." She looks like she's thinking about hitting him with the briefcase - which Sark knows form experience is fairly painful. It's heavier than it looks. "The whole security system is going bonkers. Let's _go_."

Sark gives her a quelling look and checks the corridor. When he knows it's safe, he runs for it - cramming his shoulder against the bar-release of a door, holding it long enough for Ariadne to wedge herself in next to him, and then he slams it shut and activates the magnetic security lock. "Down," he tells her, so that she can run ahead of him. "Three stories, all the way to the bottom, go!" 

A face appears in the security window of the door, through bulletproof glass. Sark smiles broadly at Agent Vaughn before he follows Ariadne, tipping an imaginary hat on his way.

Thanks to the chemist's carefully set (though not so carefully timed) explosions, the security protocol has been stripped away from the lowest set of holding cells. Sark forces himself past Irina's former tank without riddling the glass with ineffective bullets - he's quite proud of himself, actually - and manages to yank Ariadne back by her jacket just in time to crack three more bullets into another guard. "They should all be upstairs by now," he complains, dropping the clip and snapping another into place. 

"Yeah, great job with your intel there, bucko." Ariadne shoves his briefcase into his hands, and slams her palms against the glass of the last cell. "How do we get _in_ here."

Sark doesn't answer her for a moment - actually taking the time to check corners and to rip the hard-wired security phone form the wall - and then realises why she's so concerned about getting Arthur out of the cell. (Not that Sark isn't as well, thanks very much. Sark has a vested interest in this procedure, and in his _associate_ , if he dares use the word, that is laying flat on his back in a terribly expensive looking vest. He even spares a moment to wonder when the last time these floors were washed before he registers the two other bodies. 

"For Christ sake," Sark grinds out, and rubs his fingers into his forehead in something like disbelief. Not _quite_ disbelief, of course, because _naturally_ Sydney would be the one to meddle with this entire affair. _Naturally_ it would be Sydney as the third passenger hooked up to the PASIV device, eyelids flickering peacefully, ignorant of all the danger to her corporeal form. Sark wants to wake her up just to kill her. Just to prove the bloody _point_.

"Sark!" Ariadne says, and gives him another shove. "Jesus, come _on_ already." 

"Right," he mumbles, and stoops to one knee in a smooth movement, cracking the catches on the briefcase. Inside, a cylindrical device with a digital readout chirps happily up at him. He removes three small nodes, spidering the device onto the glass, and then attaches all three for support. He programs a five second countdown into the timer, and then gestures for Ariadne to step back to him. 

"What the hell is t - " she begins, when all of the glass hairline fractures and falls in a crashing wave. Outward, like nothing so strong as a broken and peeled-back windshield frame. 

"A...friend made it," Sark explains (poorly), and gingerly steps over the fallen glass and into the room itself. "For situations such as these."

He kneels, despite his better judgment, next to Arthur. Sydney can wait. He lifts Arthur's eyelids, one and then the other, and checks the pupil dilation, and then the man's pulse. "He'll be fine," Sark says, looking at the timer on the PASIV device and then back to Ariadne. 

"Thank god," she says, but she's kneeling next to the other man, the broader, rougher looking one who separates Sydney from Arthur. "What about Eames? Eames, what are you _doing_ here?" She takes one of his hands, and checks the PASIV's lead, as if the man isn't capable of plugging himself in properly. Which he may not be - Sark doesn't know him from Adam, that's for certain - but he's beginning to smell the beginnings of a plan that he wasn't privy to. 

"How do you know him?" he asks Ariadne, starting to check around the bodies for any evidence of what compound they'd been using to put them under. If they can figure out how Arthur was sedated, after all, they can properly wake him. _Kick_ him. Whatever silly slang the dream thieves use.

"He's our - he's Cobb's forger," she says, touching: Eames's hair, his shirt, the PASIV. Frowning. "He's Arthur's friend."

Sark stops for a moment, letting his wrist perch on his knee, and stares at Ariadne. "Arthur doesn't have friends."

Ariadne looks defiantly up at him. "Anyone who knows that about Arthur would be one."

He watches her for another moment, long enough that her own eyes start to slide away, but says only: "Mm," and then goes back to his search. 

They work in silence for a moment, and Sark can tell it's not a natural state of being for the young woman. After exhausting all other options for determining the sleep agent, Sark goes back to his briefcase, extracts a syringe and rubber piping, and takes Arthur's unused arm in his hand. Cradling the man at his elbow, he makes a tidy tourniquet, and draws blood. 

"I don't get you," Ariadne says as he's pulling the needle free. 

Sark doesn't look at her. He looses the tourniquet with a snap. "What's to get?" he asks, and the way he pronounces her terminology has a distinct flavor of disdain floating around it. 

"You lie to your boss," she starts out, leaning back until her backside is resting against her heels. "You help us, even though you probably shouldn't be. You know about Arthur being alive in the first place, when none of us were even really super sure how he died. And then you put together this crazy Spy Versus Spy scheme to break him out, totally for _free_ , and I just don't really understand what it is you're getting out of it. Did Saito put you up to this?" She squints at him, as if she thinks she's really onto something with that last one.

"No," Sark says, though he's not sure it isn't true. He doesn't know who Irina's associates are, after all. But he doesn't know the name at all, so it's a safe bet.

"So why the hell," she starts, when the ceiling in the next cell caves in.

Sark looks up, unruffled, and sees the chemist's head poking out of the hole. "Hello, Ariadne!" he cries cheerfully, waving one dusty hand. "...is that _Eames_?"

Sark looks back down, and smooths Arthur's hair back into place where it's set adrift just slightly. "Because," he says matter-of-factly, "I don't like owing people favors."

 

 

 

The room is lit by electric camping lanterns that invite disturbing, speculative images of Arthur roughing it. It isn't that Eames believes him incapable - if it came to setting up a tent or chopping wood or whathaveyou, Eames has no doubt that Arthur would be able to run circles around them all - but he also can't imagine the man _enjoying_ it much. Grim determination only goes so far.

"No chemicals this time," Arthur is explaining to Sydney, as she pops the release on a fairly beat looking armchair. She reclines, and turns her inner arm upward for Arthur as he prepares the PASIV. "It's all mental. I'll explain the science to you sometime."

Eames checks himself one more time for guilt on this, and decides he doesn't have any. They'll take her under a second time, and then a third, and then Eames will put a bullet through her fucking eardrum, and take Arthur back home.

Beyond that, he'd rather not think about it.

Sydney is all business now - nodding, attentive, tucking her hair obsessively behind one ear. Eames leans against the wall, watching the light from the crack under the door, and wonders whether the sun has put itself right, yet. 

"Alright," Arthur says, pushing himself up out of his crouch. "We'll be right behind you, okay? This time you get to build the dream. Have fun with it. We'll be right with you." 

Then he punches the button on the PASIV, and Sydney's eyelids slide shut.

"Nice," Eames says, arms crossing tighter over his chest. "Touching."

"Shut up," Arthur says, reeling out another line for Eames. "You're going to have to explain to her why I can't come with you."

"Oh, don't worry about me, pet." Eames waves one hand, and heaves himself up from his entrenched spot. Another empty chair waits for him on the other side of the PASIV. He hesitates, dithering next to Arthur as the man swabs the injection site. "You did try to kick yourself?"

"Of course I did," Arthur says, without (much) venom. His mouth twists ruefully, and he looks over at Eames. "Even if we get her stuck down there... you're going to have to have Yusuf figure out how to wake me up."

Eames nods. He was counting on this, really. It's not news. But hearing Arthur _say_ it is worse than he expected. He'd been hoping, maybe, that Arthur just hadn't _tried_ yet, that maybe he'd _wanted_ to stay down here and now he was ready to go home, and they could just pull a trigger and have done with it.

It can be that easy. Not for them, maybe, but for some.

"Sit down, Mr. Eames." Arthur's giving him a wan smile, one of Eames' favorites, and he considers pointing that out before he takes his seat. Not now. Later, maybe, but not now. He offers his arm up, meets Arthur's concentrated expression, and grins. "Be gentle, darling."

Arthur huffs out an exasperated laugh, and Eames wonders how long he's _really_ been in here alone if that'll get him a reaction. Then the expression on Arthur's face clouds into something distracted, and he looks down at his own arms. "What - " Arthur starts, his eyebrows knitting close.

"...what?" Eames echoes, eyes quickly scanning Arthur for trouble.

But Arthur shakes himself out of it, whatever it is. A wire of concern snakes itself into Eames' guts. Whatever is going on, up on the top level of their consciousness, it's enough to be filtering down into Arthur's body. Some of which is relaying into the dream, Eames realizes, just as the ground rumbles action-movie-earthquake style. He can't help but slip out a laugh, and reaches out to catch Arthur's arm to lend balance.

"What the hell," Arthur says, irate at the betrayal of his stable dream state. The rumbling continues, and then subsides. 

"It's fine," Eames tells him, and forces himself to let go of Arthur's arm. He leans back in the chair, turns his arm upward. "Come on, have at me."

And there's a pounding on the door. 

Just one fist at first, enough to turn Arthur's head and lift his eyebrows, but soon there are another set of hands, and then a chorus. Angry yelling from outside, and Eames looks at Sydney. At the PASIV, and then at Arthur.

"For fuck sake," Arthur says.

"I thought we were..." Eames starts to say, and then cuts himself off, realizing how foolish it is, _ever_ , to assume that there are no projections just because you can't _see_ them. "It's not _us_ changing the dream."

"No," Arthur agrees, irate, and pulls his weapon free, checking the chamber. He sighs. The lead is released, reeling back into the secondary PASIV, and Arthur shakes his head. "See you," he says, and lifts the gun to Eames' head.

"What are you - " Eames asks urgently, eyes going wide -

 

 

 

Eames wakes.

 

 

 

Sydney wakes screaming, and Sark cringes and claps a hand over her mouth. The man (Eames?), he notices, is awake as well, efficiently winding the PASIV back together. Arthur, however, remains asleep. "Agent Bristow," he hisses in her ear, " _shut up_." Sydney stiffens against him, presumably in horror, and Sark spares a moment to pat her condescendingly on the leg with his free hand and add, "Good girl." Then he lets her mouth go, and she wheels around and tries to drive his nose into his skull via her elbow.

Typical.

Sark sighs, dodges, and wrenches Sydney's arm down. " _Later_ ," he promises her, and points to their collapsing surroundings. 

"What are you _doing_?" she demands, as Eames creakily stands, pushing his palms against the small of his back.

"Christ," he says, and Sark is surprised to hear another English accent. "Not used to lying on the _floor_ for this, alright. You people really need to invest in some Ikea or something."

"You clearly haven't seen the ground floor offices," Sark monotones, helping Sydney to her feet. "Why is he still asleep?"

Eames looks down at Arthur, and kneels immediately to check his pulse. Another explosion goes off at the far end of the room, but none of them (except Ariadne, pacing restlessly just outside the range of the shattered glass) register it. "We need to get him to Yusuf. I don't know what - oh, hello Ariadne - what he's been dosed with, or how long it might effect him. Who are you?"

This he directs at Sark, and Sark runs through an immediate rolodex of possibilities on Eames. Paramilitary, intelligence, shadow op, mercenary. No one stays calm three floors underground with twenty tons of concrete threatening their tender egg-like bodies without having some kind of formal training. "Getting you out of here," is what he says, though, and Sydney squawks at him.

" _Later_ ," he tells her again, with more than a hint of exasperation in his voice this time.

"If you think I'm going to just let you walk out of here - " she starts, and he throws his arms up.

"Oh, yes!" he cries. "Yes, this is the perfect time to do this! Arrest me, and savor the moment, since that's all you have before your body is _crushed under the weight of the entire building_."

Sydney hesitates. Eames ignores them both, and settles the PASIV on Arthur's stomach, and then picks him up.

"Princess style," Ariadne says. "That's kind of sweet."

"Shush," Eames says. "He'll hear you." He winks, though, and Sark stares at Sydney. 

The chemist's head appears in the main hole again, and he says, "Are we ready? Hello, Eames!"

"Cheers, mate!" Eames replies merrily, and hipchecks Ariadne gently out of the way.

These people, Sark thinks. These people. Like kidnapping someone _from_ the CIA, blowing up a federal building, and strolling out of the flames is an every day thing for them.

Sark thinks he could get used to them.

With the chemist's help, Eames manages to lever Arthur's body up and out through the ceiling. Sark suspects there may be rope involved as well. But he can't be sure, because he's too busy staring at Sydney. She has a gun on her - Sark can see it - but they both know he's faster, and stronger, and he's managed to turn her own weapon on her more than once before. 

Ariadne hesitates after the men call down the all-clear, throwing the rope down for her. ("Hurry, Ariadne!" the chemist calls to her, "I made a bet with Dom that we would be home before six. He has to buy sushi if we make it!") She crunches over the glass back to the two of them, and stares at Sydney. 

For the first time Sydney's glance wavers, and she looks over at the girl. 

"You're kind of a moron," Ariadne tells Sydney, and Sark has to bite down on the inside of his mouth to keep his expression bland. Then she looks at Sark, and scrunches up her shoulders. "Are you coming, or what?"

"I'll be along, dearest," he says, droll. 

"Whatever." Ariadne sighs, and shakes her head, and crunches toward the hole in the ceiling. She's barely got herself twined into the rope when the men start to haul her up, and Sark and Sydney are alone.

"I'd rather die down here with you than let you free again," Sydney says to him, all venom and fury in her eyes, the set of her bones, the strain in her neck.

"You say the sweetest things," Sark tells her, and the ceiling caves in.

 

 

 

Three weeks and four countries later, Arthur is still asleep. Yusuf has promised that the compound will run its course, a month at the outside, but Eames is tired. He's tired of watching Arthur be still and wan, tired of making sure that his vitals are correct, that he's getting enough food, that his body is healthy, that his muscles don't atrophy. 

Don't misunderstand: he would do this for Arthur _until the end of time_ if it meant keeping the man alive. But he's impatient, now. He wants _Arthur_ back, not this still, quiet, personality deprived body that's carving a dent into his sofa in Milan. They've moved a few times because Eames keeps trying to decide what country might be the most refreshing for Arthur to wake up in. Paris, Chicago, Edinburgh have all slipped past. Eames _likes_ Milan. 

And he's been under, of course. He visits Arthur as often as he can, without bringing danger to them both. The man knows what kind of wait he's in for, he understands the risks, and is being far more complacent about it than Eames could be.

But then, that's Arthur.

It's close to eleven in the morning when the knock on his door sounds, and he's trying to multitask a cup of coffee, an ancient copy of the New Yorker, and checking his voicemails at the same time, which makes hobbling to the door a little complicated. When it opens of its own accord - and it was locked, he knows it was locked because he's not a _careless fuck_ \- his first reaction is to throw the coffee cup at the intruder. 

Sark ducks as the mug shatters next to the door frame, shouting a, "Jesus!" and throwing an arm up to shield himself from scalding hot coffee. 

"Jesus yourself!" Eames says, closing his phone. "Don't you know how to _wait_?"

"I thought no one was home," Sark says primly, and shuts the door behind himself. "I've come to see Arthur."

"Fuck you have," Eames says, crossing his arms over his chest. When he wants to, Eames has learned over the course of his life, he can appear to be quite large.

Sark is not visibly impressed. Arthur, being helpfully _Arthur_ , says nothing.

Eames tries again. "He's not here."

Sark stares at him. "He's on your sofa."

Looking over his shoulder, Eames glowers at Arthur's prone form. It's his fault for not moving, somehow. "Fine," Eames says, stalking toward the only door in the flat. "Take your time. Hurt him and I'll kill you."

"Touching," Sark says, raising his voice to be heard as Eames retreats. "Very touching, Mr. Eames."

"I - wait, aren't you supposed to be _dead_?"

Sark lifts his eyebrows. "I hear that all the _time_."

Eames huffs in frustration, and slams the door behind him, as if Sark will be any more respectful of this barrier than he has been of Eames' front door.

 

 

 

"It's really terribly inconvenient." Sark sighs, and recrosses his legs, chin resting on his fist. He watches Arthur, watches the stillness of the man. There is, of course, the PASIV. Should he want to, he could easily plug himself in. He's not a skilled dreamer, but Sydney's taken him down a few times in the past few weeks. 

Of course, learning from Sydney is not what he wants. Sark does not enjoy learning a thing unless it is to learn it _best_ , to learn it _better_. Another thing he shares with Arthur, and another thing to bring him back to Arthur's doorstep. He hadn't counted on the man still being asleep, of course, but the possibility was always there.

"It's starting to smack of laziness, in fact. Really. You're missing a lovely afternoon." It's been a few hours since Eames retreated in his snit, and Sark has rearranged the living room to his own purposes. He turned the chair, primarily, so that he could sit next to Arthur and stare out the fantastic windows down into the heart of Milan itself. "The gentleman - and I use the term loosely - carting you around has smashing taste, of course. But then, all your friends would have to, wouldn't they." He snorted in light amusement at himself, and shook his head. 

Sark stood, shifting over to the edge of the sofa, and lifted the lapel of his jacket to reach into his inside pocket. 

"I took the liberty of...borrowing a few of your items from the CIA," he said, pulling out some odds and ends. A fine point sharpie, a red die, a switchblade, an easily palmed nickel plated handgun. 

Sark chuckles at that one, placing it on the low coffee table next to them. "That smacks of vanity, sir," he tsks Arthur, and reaches into his pocket again.

The last thing he takes out is small, the size of Arthur's typical affected notebooks, perhaps double the thickness, and wrapped in brown paper. 

"For later," Sark says, tapping his fingers on it as he places it on the table. "Let me know what you think, when you have a chance." 

Then he sighs, and looks down at Arthur. Sark touches his chin, notes how Eames has kept him well shaved, properly dressed, bathed. Looking perfectly like Arthur has put himself down for a nap, and has an important meeting to arrive to afterward. The only concession to permanence is his lack of shoes, which comes across as both disarming and quaint. Arthur's bare toes, Sark notes, hold the same healthy cast as his face. Arthur is getting his vitamins.

Lovely. 

"I would like to see you again, you know," Sark tells him. "Perhaps sometime when we can hold a conversation. We do have a lot to catch up on."

Sark leans low on one elbow, and Arthur breathes. Slowly. The respiration of a dreaming man.

"Take care," Sark tells him, and bends low enough to kiss him on the mouth.

This, of course, is when Arthur wakes.

This, of course, is when Eames opens his bedroom door.

 

 

 

"What the fuck," Eames says, and at the same time:

Arthur opens his mouth and tries to speak, and nothing but a dusty wheeze comes out. He turns his head to the side and starts coughing violently, and Sark sits back, alarmed by both men.

Eames, however, seems to be winning the competition of _which_ of them to pay attention to, because Sark's eyes go just a little bit wide, right before Eames grabs him by the collar of his jacket and _heaves_ him away from Arthur.

Not throwing him across the room. That would be entirely ineffective for Eames' purposes. No, he holds onto Sark, and shifts him rapidly, and fairly violently, away from Arthur. 

"Who the fuck do you think you are - " Eames is demanding, and Arthur is still coughing, and Sark - Sark - is laughing. 

"Of course," Sark is saying, laughing and trying to twist his way out of Eames' grasp, "of course, I had no idea - "

"Shut up," Eames snaps, and yanks open his front door so hard the knob dents the wall. He _throws_ Sark out of the flat, and slams the door shut, locking and bolting the door.

For a moment, all he can hear is his own breathing. Then, Sark on the other side of the door: "You ought to tell him, at the very least!" he calls, rapping maddeningly on the door. 

Eames throws himself against the surface, cramming his eye against the peep hole, and sees Sark give him one last infuriating look before he disappears down the hall. 

Then:

Arthur.

Eames wheels around, watching Arthur disengaging himself from the PASIV, and feels like an utter heel. Three strides, he's in the kitchen with water, four, he's back to the sofa and offering it to Arthur, who is experiencing the distinctly uncomfortable facial expressions of someone who's registering that he's got a catheter in.

"Don't," Arthur says, raising a hand, "Just let me - hold on a second, I can't even - " And then he's got his hands in his pants, reaching for the switchblade, and Eames is cringing and trying to say 'don't, don't try to do it yourself, you'll only - ' and Arthur is saying 'I _have_ done this before - ' and then Arthur is grunting and Eames is making a noise of sympathetic distress and the catheter is out.

"Jesus," Eames says.

"Never again," Arthur tells the tube. "Can you - "

" _Yes_ ," Eames says, taking it from him, and handing over the water. "You sound like you got hit by a train."

"A few times," Arthur agrees, shifting uncomfortably and doing up his zip. He closes the switchblade - and where, Eames wants to know, did that come from - and sets it back on top of a few other items. One of which is Arthur's totem, and Eames realizes with a cold shock what Sark was doing here, exactly.

Arthur takes care of the IV himself, while Eames does away with the rest of the paramedical gear. Never again, he thinks, in Arthur's voice. He takes his time in the kitchen, even though it isn't a separate room. He knows Arthur can see him; knows he isn't really biding himself any privacy, but he can't particularly help himself. 

"I am _fucking hungry_ ," is the first thing Arthur says after Eames comes back to the sofa.

"Arthur," Eames says.

Then Arthur's gaze sharpens on him, and he demands, "Do you know who that was?"

Eames shifts slightly. "Arthur. I don't care who that was. Do y - "

"You don't say that about the CIA's top-five most wanted sociopath," Arthur cuts him off. "You don't - he could have hurt you, Jesus, he could - I haven't seen him in _years_ , you know, how long was I out?"

It hurts Eames' brain slightly to follow the line of conversation, but no more so than usual. "Three weeks since the Bristow incident. I don't know how long, before that. Which is he, the most wanted, or the top five?"

"It shifts," Arthur says. He looks at Eames. "You kept me?"

Eames nods.

"Not Dom."

Eames grunts. He lifts one shoulder. Cobb offered, Eames refused. 

Arthur stares at him. "Other people _are_ allowed to touch me, Eames."

Eames leans his elbows on his knees and clasps his hands together. "No," he says to Arthur, deliberately slow. "They are not."

There's a moment of silence, one in which small universes are born and implode and die again, before Arthur says: "Ah."

"It could be worse," Eames tells him. "They could have put you in one of those orange jumpsuits. You could've woke up wearing _orange_ , Arthur."

"Any color jumpsuit would be horrific enough, thank you," Arthur says testily, and then clears his throat. "Explain to me, Eames, exactly why no one else is allowed to touch me."

Eames blows a hard breath through his nose, and sits back, feeling the squeak and push of the worn leather on the sofa at his back. 

"Ah," Arthur says again.

"You were dead," Eames says. "You were dead and I left the team and you were _dead_ , Arthur, alright, and I can deal with, you know, I can see that however many times, I can put a bullet in you _myself_ , but really dead, as dead as - "

"You found me."

"By _mistake_ ," Eames spits, and he doesn't mean to look at Arthur, because that won't help, really, but suddenly he is, and it cracks out of him. "I wasn't even _looking_ for you, Arthur, because you were _dead_ , and what was I supposed to _do_ , I brought you to _Milan_ , because what was - what was I supposed to _do?_ "

Arthur considers this for a moment. He looks down at his bare feet, and his trimmed fingernails. He touches the back of his neck, and then runs a palm over his chin. 

Then he looks over at Eames, who is quite sure that however very suddenly shattered and delicate he feels, he probably looks about ten times worse. 

"Exactly what you did," Arthur tells him, and there is more balm in his voice than Eames could have ever expected to hear. He turns away, staring wildly out at the living room, and reaches for his totem, scrambling it out of his pocket. He's distantly aware of Arthur's rough, kind laugh behind him as he runs fingers over the surface, and then flips it once to check the weight. 

When he's sure he's awake, he rests his elbows on his knees, and his face in his hands, and tries to breathe. 

Arthur's hand finds the back of his neck, and squeezes. 

"Eames," Arthur says quietly, and nothing else.

"Hn," Eames replies, but it's an accepting sort of grunt, a _yes I know I'm being a right girl_ sort of grunt. The hand squeezes on his neck, and he breathes out, and Arthur is awake.

 

 

 

Later that night, when Eames is asleep, because he needs to, and Arthur is awake, because he can't, not again, not for a while, probably, at least a few days, Arthur finds the packet that Sark left him.

The truth is, Arthur loves Milan.

He sits on the balcony just off the living room, and the glow of the city and the scooters and the horns and the kids getting out of the clubs and the police sirens call up to him, and he thinks: this is real. And: I am awake.

He turns the paper wrapped book over in his hands, and picks at the taped down edge, listening to the loud, rough sound of the butcher block wrapping crinkling in on itself. What's inside is an old, old book. One covered in crumbling, ancient leather, and wrapped around with a long leather thong. Arthur takes his time unwrapping it, spreading the paper across his lap to catch the inevitable flakes of leather as they brush off on his hands. 

The binding, though, is impeccable, and on the front page, a sepia script with significant flourish reads: _The Rambaldi Prophecies_

 

 

 

Eames wakes to the sound of his bedroom door widening, just before dawn. He hadn't been able to bring himself to close it - he'd been sleeping with the damned thing open for weeks, just in case Arthur woke in the middle of the night, disoriented. It was only exhaustion that had let him sleep in the first place, but there's an inexplicable pleasure in the lack of hesitation in Arthur's stride as he crosses the room.

"Awake," Eames says, just to let Arthur know. 

"Mm," Arthur says, and sits on the edge of the bed. The rising dawn through the window is enough that Eames can make out the defining features of him: jaw, nose, the fall of his hair. "I'm not an idiot, Eames," is what Arthur says, and what Eames thinks, at first, is that he's talking about the redundancy of announcing his awakeness, but then he realizes that it's not at all.

"I didn't think you were," Eames says, pushing himself upright, because he refuses to have this conversation prone. "I just...didn't know. Until you were dead, and then what?"

"That's shit," Arthur announces, with no malice. "You don't realize you love someone until they're dead?"

"Absence makes the heart," Eames says. "Etcetera." 

"And now, what," Arthur says, gesturing out the window with his hand. "I know, nothing changes, we go back to work, you needle the shit out of me, same as always?"

"Darling," Eames says, "right now, that sounds like the most wonderful thing in the world."

Arthur huffs a laugh, and shakes his head, squeezing back when Eames finds his hand and wraps their fingers together.

"You're being very..." Eames says, and then flounders, looking for an adjective.

"Well." Arthur looks down at him, really _looks_ , and it's possible that Eames is actually _blushing_ , but he's not going to think about it. Not right now, and possibly not _ever_. 

Eames realizes belatedly that he's waiting for Arthur to say something, to explain something, but that Arthur either has no explanation or feels one isn't necessary. This, Eames realizes, is when he needs to be kissing Arthur, but he hasn't expected the force and clumsiness of it, the sudden lunging need as he pushes himself up and into Arthur's mouth at, quite possibly, the worst angle in history. Arthur grunts against his mouth, shifts to accommodate him, and wends the fingers of his free hand into the hair at the back of Eames' skull, cradling him close. 

Totem, Eames thinks.

"You've seen me naked," Arthur accuses him, and Eames laughs, full, barking laughter. 

"I had to _dress you_ ," Eames scolds him, sitting up properly and finding his mouth again, unable to stop now that he's had a taste. He disentangles his hands - one from Arthur's, one from the bedding where it's been gripping for sheer support - and finds the shape of Arthur's ribcage over his clothes, finds the perfectly cut shirt, the crisp cotton. 

"I really - " Arthur tries to say, and gets lost against Eames' mouth again, groaning quietly. 

"Shut up," Eames tells him, mirth dragging its way into his voice. "Shut up, shut up, be real, don't turn into Dom - "

"Eames, that is _disgusting_ ," Arthur tells him, and then there are hands on him, hands on the ratty shirt he was sleeping in, hands dragging at the covers. "You're not dreaming."

"That's what you always say before you turn into - "

Arthur cuts him off the best way he knows how; with his mouth over Eames' and his fist between Eames' legs, and Eames thinks he might die, thinks he might actually die and end up in hell with his Grandmum Prudence (oh, she's definitely down there) if Arthur stops.

"I don't," Arthur takes advantage of the opportunity to enunciate, "want to be in a bed right now."

"Darling," Eames gasps, fumbling with buttons and wishing he could just give up and rip and knowing that Arthur will knife him if he does, "You can fuck me in the tub if you like. Just take your clothes off."

And miraculously, somehow, beyond all Eames' imaginings and understandings of the world and the way it works:

Arthur does.

 

 

 

It's afternoon, Arthur thinks, and then decides he doesn't care. 

They're on the balcony - again - and Eames is naked (usual) and eating fruit (unusual) and _staring_ at him. 

"You're going to have to stop that eventually," Arthur says, but neither his tone nor his feet in Eames' lap are doing much for his case.

"No," Eames says joyfully, and sucks honeydew off his thumb.

Arthur's attention hones instantly, and the small leather book cradled in his palms snaps shut.

"Oh ho," Eames says, delighted.

As he stands, Arthur says, "We _are_ going to have to go back to work eventually, you know." It lacks sting, especially since he's settling into a straddle over Eames' lap as he says it. 

"Work?" Eames asks. "Work Arthur is dead. Nymphomaniac Arthur has no place in a dream sharing environment. What will Ariadne _think_?"

"Probably nothing she hasn't thought before," Arthur says flatly, and Eames snorts and kisses him. "You _will_ have to give me up eventually, Eames," Arthur tells him.

And Eames leans back far enough to look Arthur in the eye as he smiles, and says, "No," quite simply, and if he really thinks about it, Arthur isn't entirely inclined to fight him.

 

 

 


End file.
